


The Queen's Consort

by ccgh518



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Burn, i don't know how it happened either, was conceived because the Backstreet Boys came on at work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-24 23:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14964393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccgh518/pseuds/ccgh518
Summary: Isolde Plantagenet, the first daughter of the first York King of England, Henry, lives a relatively happy life as the Princess of England, and second in line to the throne, behind her older brother, Arthur. The only thorn in her side is her betrothed, Sir Jackson Whittemore, the Duke of Suffolk. She is resigned to her fate as someone who is forced to marry for duty, not love, until she meets a man at a ball.





	The Queen's Consort

**Author's Note:**

> this will be a royal-commoner AU, taking place somewhere in the 1400s, i guess, not that that really matters, and will serve as a means to get this idea out of my head so i can work on my actual projects.
> 
> This mini series was born from a really silly idea: i was sitting at work, listening to the NSYNC Pandora radio station when “As Long As You Love Me” by The Backstreet Boys came on, and truly, you could see the wheels in my brain turning as i sang along to the line “I don’t care who you are, where you’re from, what you did, as long as you love me.” then my brain just kept mulling over the possible plots for it and now this has been born. - there will be some parts that are offensive to the LGBTQ community because regardless of the fact that Jackson is canonically bisexual, it does not mean that people back then weren’t absurdly homophobic. i tried to tone all the offensive shit down as much as possible.

“My Lady, look at how the emissary stares. Does he have no shame at all?”

Isolde barely lifted her eyes to meet the place where she last knew the diplomat from Portugal to be standing. He did not notice her gaze shifting from the twine and flowers in her hands to his blatant watchfulness. She dropped her sights back to her work and spoke softly in reply. “Let the man stare. What does it matter?”

Elizabeth, one of her newer ladies in waiting, set her half-made flower crown down in her lap and turned fully to Isolde. “My Lady, it matters because you are the Princess of England, second in line to the throne and he is nothing more than an errand boy. He is here to broker the remaining pieces of Princess Bridget’s betrothal to Prince Tomás. He is  _not_  here to stare at you with such obvious lust in his eyes.”

Isolde finally placed the crown that she was weaving with daisies and dandelions into her own lap and gave her young lady in waiting, her full attention. “ _He_  is Ferdinand of Coimbra, and  _he_  is cousin to King Alfonso of Portugal, so he is  _not_  simply an errand boy, and  _you_ should mind what you say, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth shied away from her mild scolding and bowed her head, understanding that she had spoken out of turn. “I apologize, My Lady.”

Isolde let her sight drift off towards the man that they all spoke of, softly smiling and nodding when she met his gaze. He nodded back, barely lifting his cup to toast her silently, before he walked away quickly, having been discovered in his lustful staring. Isolde sighed softly and brushed her fingers over the soft yellow petals of the dandelions in her lap.

“And anyway,” Her voice commanded attention, even when it was soft, even when it was expressing a complete afterthought. “what would it matter if he was ’ _just an errand boy_ ’? He is still a person and I really don’t know what makes any of us any better than him, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Your title and God’s Will, Your Grace. That is what makes you better than all of us. You were ordained to be better from birth.” Elizabeth spoke up again, seemingly unable to remain silent or understand when Isolde was simply speaking, versus when she was engaging her maids in a conversation.

“Her Grace does not need to be reminded of her title by  _you_ , Elizabeth. Be silent.” Anne Bryant, Isolde’s main lady, closest confidant, and oldest friend, spoke from around the princess.

“ _Enough_.” Isolde spoke quiet, but firm, putting a swift end to the thoughtless chatter occurring around her. “Go elsewhere. Attend to the younger girls or see if any of our guests need the entertainment of your stories.” Isolde looked around at the circle of young women surrounding her. “Leave me, now.”

“Yes, m'lady.” Most of them said in practiced unison, before rising, curtsying, and dispersing into the festivities on the lawn behind the castle.

Isolde sighed quietly again and shook her head, before dumping the contents of her skirt into the grass next to her. She caught the smirk on her best friend’s face and could not help but mirror it. She rolled her eyes, as her grin turned toothy and less demure.

“Sometimes, I fear that Elizabeth will simply never learn.”

Anne chuckled, covering her mouth with the back of her hand in order to muffle the sound a measure. “I don’t know, Izzy, it did seem as though you  _had_  forgotten that you were the Princess of England for a moment there.”

Isolde narrowed her eyes and nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, Annie, thank heavens Elizabeth was there to remind me of my station and the grandiose amount of superiority that it brings.”

Anne laughed outrightly at the comment and bowed her head, to ignore the stares that her outburst inevitably drew. “You give her direct instruction and we all try to lead by example but, I don’t know, Isolde, Elizabeth is  _just_ -”

“A  _moron_?” Isolde cut off, deadpanning at her oldest friend.

“I was going to say thick headed, but I think moron covers it quite nicely.” Anne replied with a smirk.

Isolde shook her head and leaned back on her hands, feeling the long, warm grass in between her fingers, surveying all who attended the celebration of the arrival of Springtime in England. “Maybe she’ll learn one day, or maybe my mother will match her with some poor, unsuspecting Count, and she’ll be someone else’s problem then.”

“In fairness to Elizabeth, My Lady,” Anne spoke up. “Tomás  _was_ staring at you in a way that could have been construed as inappropriate were he caught by someone that mattered.”

Isolde huffed out in frustration before she collapsed backwards into the soft grass, and tilted her face up towards the sun. “Let him stare, Annie. Let them all stare.. They do it anyway. It really does not matter to me.” She paused when she heard Anne lay down in the grass beside her. “Besides,” Isolde spoke softer suddenly, and Anne inclined to hear her better. “sometimes it is nice to be looked at, appreciated, or,” Isolde scoffed and pressed her hand against the boning of her dress, that ran along her stomach. “desired even..  _Sometimes_.”

“My Lady, so many men wish that they could be with you, please do not think that you are not highly coveted.” Anne reached out with a featherlight touch to Isolde’s wrist.

Isolde shook her head and sat back up again, but remained looking at Anne. “It does not matter that many men  _want_  me when the one man who is to  _have_  me eventually is interested in literally every single living creature  _except_  for me.”

Anne looked pained by her best friend’s comment. “Izzy, Jackson is also a moron. I don’t know why you seek his approval anyway.”

“I do not seek his approval, but it would be less embarrassing if the man that I am to marry someday, in the not so distant future, would stop flirting with everything that has a pulse and occasionally acknowledge that I exist.” Isolde explained in a hushed tone, her eyes instinctively scanning the crowd to look for the man that she spoke of. 

It took her no time at all to spot him, sitting at a table with friends, smiling devilishly and stroking the side of the low-born girl serving him wine.

Anne followed her lady’s gaze and clenched her fists around clumps of grass beside her, ripping bits from the earth. “I should have Percy kill him for the vile way he treats you.”

Isolde finally cracked a smile, as she turned to look at her friend. “Yes, and then dear, sweet Percival Finnstock would be beheaded for murder because unfortunately for us, the Duke of Suffolk is higher than the Earl of Derby and I do not think the other dukes would take too kindly to a lowly earl slaying one of their own.” Isolde wriggled her nose. “Even if it is Jackson.”

“He’d do it for you though.” Anne insisted, unable to shake her protective feelings for the girl that was all but a sister to her.

Isolde chuckled and shook her head, glancing at Anne once more before looking for Anne’s betrothed in the crowd of people. “Because he is a wonderful friend, but I would never do that. I would never ask him, because I could never be responsible for you losing him, but bless you, my dearest Annie, for loving me so fiercely.”

Anne smiled back finally, and cupped her hand over Isolde’s, in the grass between their legs. “Always.”

Isolde held Anne’s gaze for a moment more before Jackson, from the distance, rising from his seat and following the servant girl towards the castle, caught her attention again. “Oh for the love of Christ. Is subtlety dead?” She asked rhetorically, before collapsing back into the grass with a thud.

“I’ll get Percival to stop the tryst before he can embarrass you, My Lady.” Anne began to get up.

“Annie, no.” Isolde grabbed at her wrist and kept her in place. “The damage is already done. Do not draw more attention to his behavior. Leave him to his whims.” She yanked gently at her friend. “Lay with me and talk more of Percy.”

Anne sighed out in frustration and happiness. She nodded once and laid down in the grass beside Isolde. “Happily, Your Grace.”

“Tell me, Anne, what is it like to be promised to a man who actually loves and values and desires you. It must be heavenly.”

* * *

* * *

* * *

Isolde watched as the children danced joyously around the May Pole, wrapping it in vibrant colored ribbons and filling the air with contagious laughter. She couldn’t help but smile and relish in the electric feeling of happiness and excitement that clearly reverberated throughout the celebration. 

She let the sound of the children dancing, the new leaves swaying in the breeze, and the minstrel softly singing, drown out the boorish conversation that the Count of Richmond was trying to have with her. It was mostly just him talking at her and trying to assert to her that he was the most loyal noble in court, and thus should be awarded for that.

She heard footsteps very shortly before a figure loomed in front of her, blocking her view of the sun and basking in the halo of light that fell behind him. “Excuse me, Lord Stanley, but I must steal my sister for a few moments.” As he spoke, Arthur finally bowed enough and turned his head in a way that allowed the light to flood his face and reveal his identity. Isolde tried not to audibly sigh in relief.

“Oh, yes, of course, Your Grace. Of course. Women  _are_  for stealing, after all.” Lord Stanley stammered, comfortable to assert his male dominance over Isolde, a woman, but completely impotent in his faux power when it came to another man, with obviously more power than him.

Isolde did not try to contain the way she rolled her eyes. Arthur acted as though the Count of Richmond suddenly ceased to exist, and held out his hand for his younger sister to take. “My Lady.”

Isolde smirked and placed her hand on top of Arthur’s, then raised herself out of her seat. She allowed him to lead her away.

“Happy May Day, sister.” Arthur smiled, genuinely, as he settled Isolde’s long fingers in the crook of his elbow.

Isolde grinned up at her handsome, dark haired, green eyed brother. “Happy Spring, Arthur, and thank you for saving me from  _Sir Strangle-Me_.”

Arthur’s hearty laugh turned heads, as the two siblings strolled under the flowering trees and towards the revelry, ignoring the stares of those who longed to know how to make the young prince laugh. “What was he blathering on about this time?”

Isolde sighed dramatically, but was no longer bothered. She focused her eyes on the path of small white petals that paved their way on the periphery of the festival and relished in her love for the season that had finally arrived, mercifully ending England’s long and dreary winter. 

“I honestly could not tell you. I stopped listening long before you showed up to spring me from that prison of boredom.”

Arthur’s smirk grew, dimples digging boyishly into his cheeks. “Well, I certainly hope it was not important matters of the state.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Isolde snickered and shook her head, inclining into her older brother’s side some, resting her head on the outside of his bicep. “Will you still take walks with me even after Katharine is here full time?”

Arthur paused and positioned himself in front of Isolde. 

He cupped her cheeks with his palms and pressed a loving kiss to her forehead, before stepping back a single, small step to look her in the eyes. “Just because I will be married soon does not mean that you will no longer be my sister and one of my greatest friends and advisors. I will always take walks with you, Isolde.”

Isolde nodded once and let a relieved smile grace her peony pink lips. “And where will this particular walk find us today?”

Arthur grinned devilishly once more, glad that he could so quickly quell his sister’s fears. “To find our new queen, of course. Make sure she hasn’t sent anyone to the Tower yet.”

Isolde cackled out a laugh and took Arthur’s arm once more.

* * *

It took no time at all to find the small group of them, huddled near the May Pole, speaking amongst themselves in the sort of hushed tones that only high-born children know how to achieve, despite their age.

Arthur ran ahead a few steps, leaving Isolde behind to increase her gait, in order to catch up. The young prince picked the small girl in the ornate white gown up off the ground and spun her in a circle. “Is this how the May Pole dance works? Am I doing it right?” He yelled just above the amused shrieks of the child in his hands.

“Let her down before she is sick, Arthur.” Isolde scolded, with a smirk and no heat behind her words, as soon as she caught up.

“Arthur, Arthur, I’m the May Queen! I’m the May Queen!”

Arthur snickered. “Yes you are, sister.”

“Do you like my dress?” The girl, merely the age of six, exclaimed, clutching on to the young prince’s sleeves.

Arthur knelt down on one knee and smoothed out the skirt of the long, white gown, with an accomplished smile. “Oh, yes, it is the most  _beautiful_  gown for your coronation, _your royal highness_. All other queen’s will look wretched in comparison to you, Bridget.”

“ _Queen_  Bridget.” The youngest Plantagenet child corrected her older brother.

“ _May_  Queen Bridget. It is only for today, brat.” Genevieve, the middle of the three daughters of the York dynasty, reminded her younger sister with a sneer and a tinge of obvious aggravation in her voice.

Isolde cupped her hand around her younger sister’s shoulder and squeezed. “Be kind, Jenny. Let Bridget have her fun. It wasn’t too long ago that you were her age and  _overjoyed_  about being crowned May Queen. I do believe it was  _only_  six years ago that you were refusing to take  _your_  white gown off before bed.”

Jenny yanked her shoulder out of Isolde’s grip and sneered. “I was never  _that_  obnoxious.”

Arthur, ever the diplomat for his three younger sisters, quickly jumped in to change the subject. “Teddy, dear cousin, what sort of mischief are the three of you planning to perpetrate upon these poor, unsuspecting souls?”

Teddy bathed in the light that was the future King of England’s attention. He turned around on his heels to address Arthur, but Jenny spoke first. “Teddy and I were watching Jackson Whittemore flirting with another girl again.”

“I was watching too, Arthur!” Bridget yelled, trying to participate in the grown-up’s conversation. 

“We were trying to sort out how we would get dirt into his wine goblet without him noticing.” Teddy chimed in, before Jenny slapped him over the arm and shushed at him.

“ _Teddy_!” She whined, not enjoying her schemes being divulged before they were ready to be put into action.

Arthur chortled and wrapped a gentle hand around Jenny’s wrist, keeping her from further abusing their cousin. “A good plot, but I think it would only yield mud, and I think he would notice that his drink had suddenly become clumpy before he drank it.”

“I didn’t think about it becoming mud.” Jenny furrowed her brow.

Arthur smiled and let go of her arm. “Keep planning, young ones. You’ll figure it out.”

“Make sure to warn us so that we may watch, if you do.” Isolde added with a grin.

The three young royals ran off together to continue their scheming, as Arthur and Isolde walked back towards the shade, arm-and-arm once more. The young prince glanced his sister’s way and frowned. “Should we have stamped out their little game of trouble? Is that what’s bothering you now, Izzy?”

Isolde looked up at her older brother and shook her head. “No, they are fine.” She stopped in her tracks, unattached herself from Arthur, and walked towards a garden fountain, only mere feet away. She sat on the hot, marble ledge and stared off at the party. “You saw him, what he was doing, when we were talking about Genevieve’s plan, right?”

Arthur sighed and nodded, before taking a seat next to his sister. “He wasn’t flirting with a girl, he was chatting up a page boy. I don’t know what is wrong with him that he does these things so openly.”

“Or  _at all_ , dear brother.” Isolde narrowed her eyes at him.

He grimaced for a moment. “ _Right_. It’s sick and wrong.”

Isolde shook her head and stared down at the intricate pink and yellow textile of her dress. “No, no, it’s not, it’s simply  _embarrassing_ for me. I am his fiancée and he could care less about how his blatantly inappropriate behavior makes me look.”

“Or feel.” Arthur chimed in.

Isolde shook her head again. “I do not care that Jackson does not love me the way you love Katharine. I did once, maybe, when I was younger, but now, I simply do not enjoy being disrespected and made to look foolish, and he is  _constantly_  making me look like an idiot.”

“You are not an idiot, Izzy. You are a  _princess_.” Arthur stared at her with a serious look on his face. 

She stared back at him for a moment, before furrowing her brow and shaking her head. “Even more reason why he should not behave the way he does so openly.” Isolde looked back towards where Jackson was last, not finding him at the table playing grab-ass with the page boy any longer. “Where did he-” That was when she spotted him, with his hand on the small of the back of one of the lady’s-in-waiting attending the festivities at court that afternoon, disappearing into the hedge maze on the opposite side of the castle. “Oh for the love of all things Holy.”

Arthur followed Isolde’s eyes and then stood, abruptly, when he saw the young Duke of Suffolk making his not-so-subtle escape from the party. “I’ll go put an end to this right now." 

Isolde grabbed at her older brother’s wrist. "Arthur, sit. Just let  _him_ -” She paused and let go of his hand. “Just let him be.”

“Why, sister? Why should I sit here and allow him to so blatantly show you no respect at all?”

“Because, brother, if you go over there, it will only make a bigger scene, and at least he was somewhat  _subtle_  about this conquest.” Isolde rubbed at her face and tried to steady her breath. Silence followed for a long moment, long enough that Isolde opened her eyes and looked up to see if Arthur had left. 

He hadn’t. 

He was faithfully sitting by her side, bent at the waist, elbows digging into his thighs, hands wringing together in quiet contemplation. 

“What?” She asked, curtly. 

Arthur stood quickly and began to pace, his hands clasped together behind his back. 

“Arthur, speak to me.” Isolde implored. 

Arthur slowed to a stop and moved a pebble with the toe of his boot. “What if I speak to father about this again?”

Isolde stood immediately and shook her head. “No. Just  _no_ , Arthur. It did  _not_  work last time, it will  _not_  work this time. Nothing has changed.”

“ _That’s not true, Isolde!_ ” Arthur raised his voice, as he stepped forward and gripped his sisters’ hands in his own. “Katharine and I will be wed in three weeks time, and we will have an heir shortly after. You will no longer be in contention for the throne and it will not matter if you marry someone as wealthy or powerful as the Duke of Suffolk. You should be able to marry who you want, Izzy.”

Isolde broke free of her brother’s hold and shook her head, vehemently. “Arthur,  _no_. It was a miracle from God that we convinced father to allow me to remain in England and marry a noble here, and the only reason that worked at all is because William begged for it from his deathbed.”

“But William also hadn’t told father about all of the ways in which Jackson makes a mockery of our name and your title with the things that he does.  _Please_ , sister, I can convince him. Grant me your blessing to speak with father.”

“Arthur, no.” Isolde stopped and shook her head.

Arthur stepped forward again and softly cupped Isolde at her elbows. “I will come up with a list of suitable alternatives with you. Maybe Jasper Tudor of Wales to solidify the peace between the houses, or Edward, the Duke of Northumberland to strengthen support on the northern border, and I will plan out my argument with all of the points that definitively make Jackson Whittemore a poor match for you.”

Isolde’s mask of steel and fortitude was quickly withering away in light of her brother’s kindness and love. She leaned into his arms and spoke softly, as he embraced her in a hug. “Do you really think you could convince father? All he ever sees of Jackson is his  _phony_ persona that he puts on when father and mother make their brief appearances at these sorts of festivals.”

Arthur leaned his cheek against the top of his younger sister’s auburn-brown hair, regardless of the simple tiara that imprinted into his skin. “I think I could, but even if I couldn’t, it isn’t like you are to marry Jackson  _tomorrow_ -”

“ _No_ , just at the end of the summer.” Isolde interjected. 

Arthur sighed and separated from the smaller girl, still holding on to her elbows. “Regardless, Izzy. Speaking to him could, at the very least, alert father and force him to pay closer attention to the whole issue.  _Give me your blessing_." 

Isolde looked up at the sky, for some sort of sign about what to do, but it was a cloudless day and she was beginning to think that if there was a God, that he had abandoned her long ago. She sighed and looked back into Arthur’s vibrant green eyes. "On one condition.”

One side of Arthur’s mouth quirked up in silent triumphant. “ _Anything_.”

Isolde stuck her pointer finger under Arthur’s nose and spoke firmly. “Do not suggest the Duke of Northumberland to anyone, ever again. I’d rather live in the Highlands of Scotland than with that lumbering oaf.”

Arthur laughed loudly and nodded. “Whatever you want, Izzy.”

* * *

* * *

* * *

Isolde pulled back the metal grate as quietly as possible, then thought about how she was going to have Percival figure out a way to grease up the old hinges before the next time that she needed to spy on her father’s conversations. She breathed shallow and slow, waiting impatiently for Arthur to arrive and be announced.

It took several more minutes, but finally, the guard knocked and opened the door. “Your majesty, your son, the Duke of Cambridge, has requested an audience with your royal highness.”

“Send him in.” Isolde watched her father curl his fingers in twice, without looking up from the parchment that his quill was sweeping over. She wondered if the intense beating of her heart was echoing off of the stones surrounding her in the secret tunnel off of her father’s study. She attempted to breathe through the nerves but every time her father’s loud voice bounced around the room, her hands shook in fear.

Fear that she would be caught spying.

Fear that Arthur would get in trouble for trying to intercede on her behalf.

Fear that she would be stuck in a loveless, sham of a marriage for the rest of her life.

King Henry rose from his seat to embrace his son in a hug. “Arthur!”

Arthur hugged his father back and searched the room for any clues that Isolde was eavesdropping on the other side of the wall. There were none. He sighed in relief when his father released him.

“I don’t have much time. The Viscount of Calais has apparently landed and is on his way here from Dover, so out with it, boy. What is it that you need from me?”

Arthur took a deep breath and straightened his back, allowing his left hand to rest on hilt of his sheathed sword, as if it gave off some heir of manliness that he felt like he could use in that moment. “It’s about Isolde, father.”

“What about Isolde?” Henry put down the chalice he had picked up to drink from, back on the desk and took a step forward. “Is she alright? Has something happened?”

Arthur relaxed some. Occasionally, it was difficult to tell if one was going to get Henry, loving and devoted father, or Henry, distant and regal King of England and Wales. Today, to Arthur, it seemed like the former.

The young prince shook his head and rubbed at his neck. He could not shake the nerves that racked his body. “Izzy is fine, nothing happened, per se. I just,” Arthur balked for a moment, thinking about how to approach the topic in the least confrontational way. “well, Your Grace, there is an issue with her engagement.”

Henry took a sharp breath in. “Oh Christ in Heaven, what sort of issue? Did Isolde let some man dip his wick in her? Was it Edmonds? I’ll gut him from stem-”

Arthur interceded as quickly as he saw an opening. “Father, father, no. Isolde is still pure, still untouched. It’s not her that is the problem.”

“But there  _is_  a problem?” Henry tilted his head to the side.

“Yes, father. It’s-”

“And if it’s not with Isolde, then it is with the Duke of Suffolk.”

Arthur sighed, the semblance of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. He nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Jackson Whitt-”

“There is no issue with the Duke of Suffolk, or his land, or his title, or his holdings.” Henry turned his back on his son, and headed back to the desk to retrieve his wine goblet. “I will hear no more of this. Just because your sister does not fancy the Whittemore boy anymore, like she did when she was a girl, does not mean anything about whether or not she will still marry him come September. She will.”

“Father,” Arthur stepped forward and placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. “please, it has nothing to do with whether or not Izzy likes Whittemore.”

Henry looked at Arthur’s hand on his shoulder as if it had burned right through his clothing. Arthur quickly removed it from the King’s person. “Speak fast, boy. I tire of this conversation.”

Arthur took a deep breath, as he took a step back. He quickly tried to remember the points that he and Isolde had practiced making for the King. “Your Majesty,” Arthur thought it best to stroke the older man’s ego some. “I know that the last time Isolde came to talk to you about the Duke of Suffolk, she complained that he was unkind to her and disloyal.”

“She was upset because Whittemore was becoming a man and spreading his manhood. I cannot fault the boy for that. Every man goes through it.” The way that Henry reasoned Jackson’s behavior during his early teenage years made Isolde’s stomach turn in an utterly unpleasant way.

Arthur spoke up again. “But Jackson did not stop, father. He has not stopped. I must insist that he has only gotten worse.”

Henry sat back down in his chair, behind his desk, and allowed his feet to rest up on the corner, where there was no parchment or ink. He sipped on his wine nonchalantly. “He is a young man. He has oats to sew, Arthur, and he is unmarried still. All men do that.”

“I have not.” Arthur countered, furrowing his brow at his father.

“And that, I will never understand, boy.” Henry insisted.

Arthur huffed out a frustrated breath at the insult, clenching his fists at his side. “We have gotten entirely off topic, Your Grace.”

“Then by all means,” Henry swept a hand in front of himself. “get us back on topic, son.”

“Even if most men sleep around with prostitutes and lowborn women and some particularly easy ladies, they do so discreetly. Jackson Whittemore does not know the definition of the word ’ _discreet_ ’, father. He makes a fool of my poor sister on an almost daily basis. The rumors that fly around court about how he has bedded most of the kitchen staff, young and old, or how he is a frequent visitor of the whorehouse outside of the castle walls.”

“Sounds like he is well on his way to impregnating half of London before he gets a chance to impregnate your sister.” Henry laughed before taking a large swig of his drink.

Isolde bunched the fabric of the skirt of her dress into her fist and then dug it into the stone in front of her. She knew this was never going to work and now Arthur was making the both of them look like fools in front of their father.

Arthur did not relent, however. “It’s not funny, father. He does it at court. He beds the ladies and the servant girls during parties. Blatantly pulling them aside, off into the hedge maze or the garden or the potato cellar. Everyone sees it happening, everyone knows, Isolde included, and it makes her look like an disrespected fool. She is a princess, yet her betrothed has eyes for everyone but her. He is making a mockery of her good name, and yours!” Arthur’s voice rose an octave higher with every new sentence, his heart thumping in his ears. He was seething with how much work it was taking to convince his father that Jackson was a vile man who did not deserve his daughter.

“Watch your tone with me, boy.” Henry warned, lowering his feet back on to the floor below his desk.

Arthur exhaled loudly and bowed his head. “My apologies, Your Grace. I simply worry for my wonderful sister.”

“And I do not?”

Arthur furrowed his brow again. “That’s not what I am saying, father.”

“Good, because that would simply not be true.” Henry managed to drive Arthur off topic once again.

Arthur shook his head. “Right, but-”

Henry lifted his hand up, halting Arthur mid-sentence. “Listen, Arthur, you and your sisters are my entire world. I love you all so dearly and there is very little I would not do for you four. I would give up the good of the kingdom for you, and Isolde, and Jenny and little Bridget, but sometimes, I also have to give all of  _you_  up for the good of the realm. Unless Jackson Whittemore has committed a crime worse than offending Isolde’s delicate ideals of love, there is nothing I can do. It’s a good match. You will understand one day when you are King and have children of your own.” Henry patted Arthur on the shoulder twice, before walking over to the table to grab the pitcher of wine.

Isolde had begged Arthur not to. 

She had no desire to ruin Jackson’s life. They were once friends when they were younger, and she hoped that perhaps they could be friends again in an older age, when he calmed down some. She understood her duty as a princess and as a woman of her time: she was to marry her best option for the advancement of her line and the succession of her royal house.

Arthur understood Isolde’s reasons for not wanting him to bring it up, but it also made his stomach turn with disgust. He could simply not allow his sister, his best friend, the person he was closest to growing up, marry a deviant.

Arthur broke his promise and divulged Jackson’s true secret. “The Duke of Suffolk has committed a crime worse than being an embarrassment to Isolde.”

Isolde felt the bile bubbling up in her throat, as she watched her father’s shoulders rise and fall when he sighed. Henry turned around to face his only son, and heir, once again. “And what is  _that_ , Arthur?”

“Jackson Whittemore has lain with women and men alike.”

Henry straightened up immediately. He placed his goblet down on a table and approached Arthur, speaking in a tone so low that Isolde could hardly hear it over the loud beating of her own heart. “Do not throw that accusation around just because you are unhappy with the outcome of this conversation, Arthur.”

“I am not throwing it around, father.” Arthur took a step back, trying to regain a dominant position. “I understand what I am saying, Your Highness, and it is true.”

“How do you know?” Henry demanded more. “More court rumors?”

“For one.” Arthur admitted. “But mostly, I’ve seen Jackson Whittemore acting inappropriately with other men. I’ve seen him touch them and flirt with them and kiss them, so had Isolde, so have several other members of the court, who I am certain if asked, would testify to the fact. I saw it as recently as the May Day celebration, father. It was vile.”

“So, he’s a deviant and he flirts with other men, but you have no proof that he has lain with one, no proof that he is an abomination in the eyes of God.” Henry countered.

“Because he is careful when it comes to someone of my station!” Arthur argued. “He knows how far he can take it in public before it begins to raise questions that he does not want asked, but the rumors, Your Grace, they persist, regardless of his power in court.”

Henry stared at his son for a few silent moments, before turning around to sit behind his desk again. The King looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath before speaking again. “He is a good match for your sister. The best match she will get here in England.” Henry rested his eyes on his son again. Suddenly, Arthur thought his father looked tired. “Do you want her to be sent away?”

Arthur stayed where he was left, standing in the middle of the room, his hands clasped together in front of him. “Of course not, but I do want her to be treated well.”

“I, of course, want that as well, but that is  _not_  always the case for women,  _especially_  a woman of your sister’s standing. Much of what she will do with her life will be done in service to her people and her kingdom. A man who marries her but does not love her may just be something Isolde has to live with.”

“But a man who loves other men instead? Is that something Isolde must bear?” Arthur proposed.

Henry and Arthur turned when the page boy knocked on the door. “Your Highness, the ambassador from Denmark is waiting in the Throne Room.”

Henry stood and turned back to Arthur. “Walk with me.”

Arthur nodded once and followed his father out of the room.

* * *

* * *

Isolde stood immediately, once she saw her brother walking down the corridor. “What happened after you went off with father?”

Arthur glanced at the three men standing outside of the door to the king’s study, and gently pulled at Isolde’s arm. “I don’t  _want_ -”

“Arthur,” Isolde cut off her brother. “it’s just Percival,” She glanced behind her at the men that he had stopped pulling her away from. “it does not matter if he hears. What happened? What did the King say?”

Arthur spoke low anyway. “I’ll admit it was a struggle convincing him, but he is going to have spies watching Jackson at Katharine’s reception banquet and at the Commoner’s Ball, and if they report back that the Duke is acting in ways unbecoming of his station and his place in the eyes of God and father, then the court will deal with him.”

Isolde pushed her bony fingers into the ribbing of her corset, digging into her stomach and tried to breathe deeply. She was simultaneously relieved and racked with guilt. “I wish I felt better about this whole thing. I do not want to condemn Jackson to death. He loves those that are not me, and that is not a crime punishable by death.”

“His preferences in where he sticks his prick are condemnable, sister.”

Isolde grimaced and shook her head. “Do you think he chooses to feel that way? I can’t imagine he wants to be attracted to men and women. Jackson knows what is at stake.”

Arthur wanted to be as compassionate as his younger sister. He wanted to be as open minded, but he still felt as though Jackson was vile in every aspect of his being, but Arthur also knew that he would never convince Isolde of that. 

He sighed and squeezed gently at her shoulder. “Either way, Jackson will make his own fate and it will not be tied with yours. I promise I will help you marry a man worthy of all that you are, Izzy.”

Isolde plastered on her most diplomatic smile and bowed her head in reverence to Arthur. “Thank you for your efforts, brother. You are too good to me.”

Isolde was grateful for the chance to make her own destiny when it came to her heart, but she still could not shake the feeling of regret for allowing Arthur to condemn and out Jackson for her sake.

She walked off with Arthur, Percy and the rest of the guards in tow.

* * *

* * *

* * *

Isolde walked into the ballroom with Annie, Elizabeth, and her other half dozen ladies-in-waiting trailing closely behind her. She looked around the room, admiring the decorations: the candles and torches leaving the room in the perfect balance between dim and lit well enough, the support beams on the ceiling draped in vibrantly colored cloths, massive bouquets overflowing with flowers and vines spilling out onto every table.

The castle was already filled to the brim with guests, but she looked, automatically for those that she knew. She quickly found her two younger sisters; Genevieve trying to look as old and regal as she felt the event called for, and Bridget, fidgeting with the flower crown weaved into her hair. Isolde found Arthur next, sulking in a corner, his chin resting in his palm and a grimace resting on his face. Her father and mother were sitting in their thrones at the far end of the room, looking otherworldly, untouchable and prestigious in their crowns and expensive robes.

In comparison to what her mother wore, a dark blue gown, with flecks of gold leaf sewn in, and a gold crown with blue and white diamonds set into the peaks with a matching choker dripping off her neck, Isolde suddenly felt naked. She glanced down at her plain periwinkle tulle gown, with the ribbon bodice up the front and long sleeves that threatened to completely swallow her hands whole, and pressed the fabric against her stomach and thighs.

“You look stunning, My Lady,  _as usual._ ” Annie’s voice rang out from behind Isolde. “Still terribly royal.”

Isolde smiled back at her best friend, happy that she knew the thoughts that were running through Isolde’s mind without them having to be spoken into existence.

“So regal that I don’t think anyone will be fooled into thinking you are lowborn, Your Grace.” Elizabeth spoke loudly, immediately ruining Isolde’s mood.

The young princess sighed and dropped her head down. “Let’s just go in.”

Isolde worked the room, finally eyeing Jackson in the crowd, talking to a small group of diplomats from Navarre, as she spoke to the ambassador from Bohemia. She continued making her rounds, talking to both the nobles that could be bothered to show up, putting in a good faith effort to show that a cause close to the Queen’s heart was also important to them, and the commoners who could afford to make the trip to London to attend such a frivolous event.

The Commoner’s Ball was one of Isolde’s favorite events of the year, partially because it was her mother’s pet project and favorite event, partially because it allowed her to stay in touch with what the needs of her people were, but mostly, because it provided Isolde with an escape from the reality of who she was and what that meant. The event had been put on since the birth of Isolde’s oldest brother, William, twenty-two years prior, and was originally meant as a means to allow the regular people of London the chance to see the future king in person, in a controlled environment.

Over time, Isolde’s mother, Cecily, changed the parameters of the event from a way for the normal Londoner to view the royal children, to an opportunity for the monarchy to better understand the needs of their people. The small London viewing party turned into a night-long festival that was open to all English men and women, regardless of their social standing, who could afford to take time off from their works, labors or families, come to the palace, and rub elbows with those nobles who bothered to come.

Isolde walked over to Bridget and ran her fingers over her youngest sister’s smooth braid. “Why are you being so fidgety, little one? Are you tired? Shall I get your maids to come fetch you and bring you to your bedchambers?”

Bridget immediately scowled. “No!” She shouted, only garnering cursory glances from passing adults. “I’m not tired, Izzy.”

Isolde couldn’t help but smirk, because even if Bridget was not tired in that moment, it was well past her bedtime and sleep would inevitably come for the little princess sooner rather than later. “Then, what, pray tell, dear sister, has got your face all in a bunch?” Isolde pressed the tip of her long index finger against the end of Bridget’s small nose.

Bridget wiped Isolde’s hand away from her face. “I don’t like this.” She tugged at her flower crown. “I want to wear my tiara. We are at a ball, Izzy. Why can’t I wear my tiara?” Her small voice quickly devolved into a whine.

Isolde smiled and gracefully got down onto her knees. “Sweet Bridget, we talked about this earlier.” She spoke softly and sweetly as she adjusted the crown into its original position on the young girl’s head.

“I don’t care, Izzy. I want to wear my tiara!” Bridget spoke loud, despite Isolde’s calm and quiet voice.

Isolde held onto Bridget’s hands, not allowing her to run off. “I know you want to wear it, but the only people who get to wear their crowns and regular dress tonight are father and mother.”

“But why?” The youngest princess continued to question and whine.

Isolde rubbed her thumb against the soft skin on the inside of her sister’s wrist and tucked a piece of hair back into place under the flower crown. “I explained this too, Bridgy. The Commoner’s Ball is a chance for everyone but the King and Queen to be equal. One night where nobles are common and commoners are noble. We are not meant to look or be any better than anyone else in the castle for this night only. It’s a night to listen to what it is that the people of England need from the monarchy and to strengthen their love of us through our availability to them.” Isolde let go of Bridget and stroked her fingers over the simple diamond-encrusted bands woven into her own light, auburn colored hair. “See? I’m not wearing my tiara’s tonight either. It is not our night to shine, sister. Do you understand?”

Bridget scrunched up her nose and shook her head. “Please can I have Mary go get my tiara, Izzy? Please?” Her pleading put her on the verge of tears.

Isolde sighed and stood, turning to look at Mary, the older lady-in-waiting that took care of Bridget. “I rather think it is time for you to sleep instead, little one. You can wear your tiara tomorrow.”

“ ** _NO_**!” Bridget was now wailing. “I don’t want to miss the ball!”

Isolde looked back at Mary and nodded her head. “Lady Sutcliffe, could you please take the princess to say goodnight to the King and Queen, and then take her to her room?”

“Very good, My Lady.” Mary curtsied, gently grabbed the young child’s hand, and led her away from the scene she was making.

Isolde smirked as Bridget turned heads with her shrieking whines and Mary did her best to hurry the tired young girl out of the room and away from the party goers. 

She turned her head, once her youngest sister was out of sight completely, and caught a young man, standing in a small group near one of the many tables filled to the brim with food, staring at her with a soft smirk on his mouth. As soon as he was discovered, he shied away and Isolde followed suit, bashful that she was caught looking back.

But the young man was handsome, and Isolde was curious and could not help herself…

“Annie,” Isolde grabbed her best friend’s wrist and yanked her in front of her. “stand right…  _here_.” She positioned Anne so that she gave her a reason to be looking towards the other end of the room, but did not block the handsome man that she wanted to get a better look at.

“Who are you spying on, My Lady?” Anne asked quietly, trying hard to quell her desire to turn around and look too.

“No one. Just act like you’re talking to me.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Anne agreed with a knowing smirk.

Isolde snuck another look.

The young man’s dark brown hair and amber colored eyes were the first things that she noticed.

Although, when Isolde realized that she could easily identify the color of his eyes, it also dawned on her that that meant he was looking back at her again.

The young princess was caught once more.

A blush and a genuinely uncontrollable smile broke out across Isolde’s face, mirroring the blush and smirk spread across his own face, as she looked away again. She breathed deeply and pressed the back of her fingers against her mouth, trying to retain her demure mystery and smother the persistent smile resting on her lips because she felt his eyes on her. 

For the first time, in some time, she felt as though she was being observed, admired, scrutinized.

Isolde felt as though beautiful whisky eyes were settled on her still and it emboldened her to take another glance of her own from across the room.

He was back to listening to his companions chat amongst themselves, but now he stood a little straighter, and he no longer ate what was on his small plate. Isolde now saw the way his perfectly plump, pink lips curved up at the sides, and how his adorably upturned nose complimented his face well. She was so deep into trying to find and count each one of his moles not covered by his clothes that she did not see Jackson come from her left, until he was guiding Anne out of the way and stepping into Isolde’s line of sight.

“My Beautiful Lady, I have been looking for you all evening.” Jackson took Isolde’s hand and kissed her middle two knuckles lightly.

Isolde took only a moment to regain her wits. “Lord Whittemore, I find that very hard to believe since I have seen  _you_  throughout most of the evening, but you’ve been too distracted in your conversations with  _scores_  and  _scores_  of  _men_ to notice me. Tell me, how many suitors have you lined up for yourself tonight? This must be the easiest of pickings for you tonight: a castle full of people who do not know better, who maybe want to be in the good graces of the Duke of Suffolk and who you will likely never have to see again.” Isolde snapped back, after ripping her hand from Jackson’s clutches.

“Oh dear princess, I truly  _do not_  understand what you mean.  _You_  are my betrothed. I only have eyes for you.” Jackson smirked crooked and sharp, as he brushed a strand of hair off of Isolde’s shoulder.

Isolde narrowed her eyes at Jackson, then glanced at the surprised face of Anne, standing just to her left. “What game are you playing at, Jackson?”

“Your game, My Lady.” Jackson took Isolde’s hand back in his once more, and squeezed tightly, keeping her from escaping from his hold. “The game you and your brother started.” Isolde’s heart began to beat fast against her chest. She attempted to keep her face neutral, in case Jackson somehow did not know what she and Arthur had set into motion through King Henry’s spies, but the shock and fear was evident. “Ah, Your Grace, if I remember correctly, this is a favorite dance of yours. Come, dance with me.”

Jackson dragged Isolde out onto the dance floor and stood by her side until the musicians began to play loudly. The young betrothed couple, in their simple clothing and practiced grace, moved around the floor and each other perfectly in time with the music. “Explain to me, what sort of game did the Prince and I start with you, Whittemore? Because I simply do not recall playing any sort of game with you,  _ever_.” Isolde spat, in between light touches of their fingers.

Jackson chuckled without any real humor in his cadence, glanced around the room with his best fake smile, then suddenly grabbed Isolde by the hand and quickly ran out of the ballroom, despite the dance not nearly being done. He pulled the young princess into one of the long corridors leading towards the back entrance of the castle, and once he felt like he was a good enough distance away, Jackson shoved Isolde into one of the alcoves that housed the tall stained glass windows. He pressed her against the wall, caging her in with his body and leaning his head in close so that any passerby would think that it was just a young couple in the throes of a passionate moment.

The Duke of Suffolk whispered low and against the skin stretched across Isolde’s left cheekbone. She tried to flinch away but he kept a still, somewhat hesitant hand pressed into her jaw. 

“You think your  _father_  has spies…” Jackson paused to lean back a degree, wanting Isolde to be able to see, as well as hear, the smug look on his face. “You do realize that the only man with more power than me, in this entire kingdom, is the King?” Isolde clenched her jaw at the reminder of that unfortunate truth. “I have more holdings, more land, more sway, more love than your own brother, the Prince,“ Jackson paused again to let the second truth sink in to Isolde’s bones. "so do not think contrary, Princess because  _you_  will be lucky to marry me, to become the head of my household, and to give me the power that your station holds.” Jackson finally spoke up when Isolde thrashed against his tight grip on her face and forearm. “ **AND YET** ,  _you_  try to trick  _me_  into losing my power, losing my title-”

Isolde finally wriggled out of Jackson’s hold and spoke as firmly as she could, while trying to hide how shaken she was in actuality. “I truly have no idea what you’re talking about, Lord Whittemore. I understand your power, I understand the other dukes’ love for you. My brother and I respect your title. It’s why my father chose you.”

Jackson stepped to the side, blocking Isolde’s path away from him. He hovered his hands over her shoulder and her hip and spoke quietly again, measured. “My  _little birds_ , they’ve chirped in my ear, they’ve informed me of things.”

“ _Things_?”

“Things about conversations overheard.” Jackson answered.

Isolde spoke in a clipped tone. “What  _sort_  of conversations, Jackson?”

Jackson’s mouth curved up in one corner. “The sorts of the conversations that could ruin peoples lives.” He tilted his head to the side, his smirk still present and menacing. “The sorts of conversations that could lead to beheadings.”

Isolde steadied her breathing and wracked her brain for anyway to escape from the alcove and the Duke of Suffolk.

Jackson grinned wider, more threateningly. “Ah,” He remarked. “ _silence_.”

Isolde knew she had to continue denying. “I  _don’t_   _know_  what you’re talking about.”

Jackson spoke in less of a whisper and rolled his eyes. “Oh,  _Isolde_ , no one ever pegged you as being half-brained.  _You aren’t Bridget._ ”

Jackson’s words stoked the fire in her body, and Isolde’s blood quickly boiled. She narrowed her eyes and spoke between clenched teeth. “Excuse  _you_ , Lord Whittemore. I will not stand idly by as you speak ill of my sister, who I remind you is a Princess of England.” Isolde tried to take the moment to escape casually, but Jackson was not ready to let her go just yet.

He pulled her back into the alcove and squeezed Isolde’s wrist tightly. Jackson spoke right next to her right ear. “Truly, Isolde,  _stupid_  is not a good color on you.” The young princess tried to rip herself out of his clutch again, but he squeezed tighter and pressed his free hand into her side. “I know that you and Arthur went to the King and told him baseless lies about liaisons I have never had.”

Isolde plastered on her best look of shock and cocked her head back. “We did no such thi-”

Jackson covered her mouth with his hand and stared her in the eyes. “No,  _you did_ , and I know you did, and I know your father has had spies watching me ever since.” Isolde finally stopped struggling, for fear of what he might do, and fell quiet. “No denials now, hmm, Princess?”

Isolde closed her eyes and attempted to take deep breaths through her nose. She and Arthur had backed Jackson into a corner, and like a rabid wolf, the Duke of Suffolk was clearly prepared to do whatever was necessary to get himself out of the jam the young royals had put him in.

Jackson heard footsteps and lowered his hand from over Isolde’s mouth to raise a finger to his lips, imploring Isolde to be silent until the passerby was gone. His vice-grip on her side remained, however. He wrapped his free hand around her wrist again when the coast was clear.

He furrowed his brow and spoke in the least hostile voice he had used with her throughout the whole evening. “I don’t understand why it is that you care what it is I do and who I choose to do it with.”

Isolde’s eyes snapped back open and she sneered at the young Duke of Suffolk. “You don’t understand why I care?” She scoffed. “I know your parents paid for the best tutors possible so I am certain that you are not too stupid to understand that you are to be my husband in the very near future, and yet, you seem interested in showing your love,” Isolde gestured down to Jackson’s crotch with her free hand. “to everyone in London but me.”

Isolde refused to hide her frustration and ire when Jackson’s reaction to her diatribe was laughter. “Oh, My Lady, it’s not my fault that everyone loves me.” Jackson grinned, leaned right up to Isolde, letting his lips brush against the shell of her ear, and whispered. “ _I’m everyone’s type_.”

Isolde snorted, undignified and without care for decorum. “If  _pompous_  is everyone’s type…”

Jackson chuckled humorlessly and pressed against his betrothed. “Your little plot will not succeed, Isolde. Your father will see nothing untowardly. You will go back to keeping your mouth shut. We will be married at the end of the year, and I will continue to have my merriment.”

“ ** _My Lady?_** ” Percival yelled out, his voice carrying off the stones in the corridor. “ ** _My Lady, are you here?_** ”

“I’ll expect another dance with you before the evening is over.” Jackson pulled Isolde close.

“Get your foul hands off of me.” Isolde seethed and shook, but shoved against him with all her strength.

Jackson stumbled back a few steps with a hardy laugh. “Have a good evening, Your Grace!”

Percival ran forward when he saw Jackson walk away in the other direction. “ **Isolde**!” He stopped to see the young royal still stuck against the stone wall, her hands pressed against her stomach, breathing heavy and labored. He approached with hasty caution. “ _Princess_ , are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Isolde grimaced and shook her head, one of her hands venturing up to cover her mouth. She was visibly shaking. “He knows.” She whispered.

“The Duke of Suffolk knows  _what_ , Your Grace?” Percival asked, hovering his hands near Isolde in case she was too weak to remain standing.

“He knows what Arthur and I did..” She paused. “ _He knows._ ”

Percival gaped and sputtered. “Bu-but how? How does he know? How could he possibly know?”

Isolde shook her head, but finally peeled herself away from the alcove. She straightened out her dress and looked up and down the corridor for those who may be listening, for little birds. She then looked back up at Percival. “Percy, find my brother and tell him what happened.”

Percival furrowed his brow but quickly nodded. “Yes, My Lady.” Isolde began to walk in the opposite direction of where the festivities raged on. Percy quickly spoke up. “Wait, Isolde, where you going?”

Isolde, with a shaking hand still pressed against her sternum,  turned and looked at her friend. “Outside for some air.”

Percy stepped forward. “Let me accompany you, or at least find someone to accompany you.”

Isolde shook her head twice. “That won’t be necessary.” She replied, as she began to turn around once more.

“But Your Grace, the castle is full of strangers and commoners. It’s not wise for My Lady to go off alone.” Percival tried to reason with the princess.“

Isolde stepped forward, close enough to her friend that she could touch his cheek. "Percy, I appreciate your concern, but I will be fine. I would like to be alone right now and I am just going for a walk through the back gardens, which have been closed off from the party guests and I have been assured are well-guarded tonight.”

Percival pinched his brow together, but bowed his head all the same. “Yes, Princess.”

“I’ll be careful, Percy. I promise. You needn’t worry.”

Percy nodded and touched lightly at the back of the hand that had come up to cup his cheek. “You don’t deserve to feel this way, Izzy.”

Isolde smiled solemnly, leaned up on her tip-toes, pulling Percival down and forward as she did, and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead. “Please go tell my brother what happened.”

Percival nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

* * *

* * *

Isolde sat on a mossy, wooden bench outside in the gardens behind the castle. She heard nothing more than the soft rustling of leaves swaying in the chilly, but bearable late Spring breeze. The light from the massive windows and the light from the full moon lit up the earth around her.

The young princess took a deep breath in, letting the thick, dewy air fill her lungs.

Her mind was void of any thought other than that she might as well become resigned to her fate because there was seemingly no changing it.

It was time to be realistic.

She would be eighteen in less than three months, and she was lucky that her father let her wait until she was even that old to be married. 

She was a royal and most children of high nobles were not raised with their siblings, and were not raised by their parents. She was afforded the luxury of both. 

Isolde was a princess and her sole purpose in life was to make a good strategic alliance through marriage, yet, her parents weren’t shipping her off to some foreign land to marry some prince or duke or king, instead, they were allowing her to remain in England, in the land she knew and loved, to marry an Englishman who would bring further wealth and stability to the future of her brother’s reign.

Isolde knew her life was one of duty and service to the crown and her people.

She tried to let that thought sink into her bones, but a rustling of leaves that was distinctly more than just wind withdrew her from her inner thoughts.

She turned her head and saw the outline of a man, brushing his long, spindly fingers against the leaves of a tree with low, thick branches. She tensed until she saw the line of three moles on the side of his neck, under his ear and her heart kicked its pace up a notch.

She watched him for a few moments more, circling around the tree, letting his hands drag against the flower buds that had yet to open amongst the leaves. She tilted her head to the side, smiled softly at how gentle he seemed and finally spoke up.

“Would you like me to leave you alone with her?”

The man started when he heard her voice, his head whipping around to the side to see her staring back, her soft smile growing into a guilty smirk. “ _You_  - oh my God, you - you scared me half to death.” He clutched at his chest and stepped away from the tree, checking the rest of his surroundings as he moved.

Isolde couldn’t help the smirk. “My apologies.”

She watched as his hand found the back of his neck and gently rubbed, as he finally began to step toward her some. “It’s dark out here. Are you out here all by yourself?” He looked around again.

Isolde tucked her feet all the way back into her shoes, in case this handsome man who she stared at contently earlier in the evening turned out to not be as handsome on the inside as he was on the outside, and she needed to run away. She spoke softly. “Snuck back here for some quiet.”

The man dropped his hand away and folded them together behind his back, bowing ever so slightly in the process. “ _My_  apologies, then. I didn’t mean to intrude.” He turned to leave, as Isolde spoke up quickly.

“You don’t have to go. You weren’t bothering me.”

“ _Oh_.” The man said, surprised. “Well, good.”

Isolde smiled gently, invitingly. He stepped towards her a fraction. “ _Good_.”

"What's your name?" He finally smiled back softly. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

* * *

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> this is just another case of me not being able to help myself and also loving period pieces. OKAY. this is a mockery of European history. i use real names of real families and occasionally real plots in terms of characters (such as Arthur Tudor marrying Katherine of Aragon), but mostly i just jacked their names to my liking. i’ve also brushed up, lightly, on my dukes vs. earls vs. counts vs. knights, but for the most part, that probably won’t be completely accurate either.


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